


Act Of Passion

by WordlessWonders



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodplay, Dom John, Dom/sub, Insanity, Jim Is a Possessive Fuck, John is a Bit Not Good, Knives, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Power Play, Sherlock Just Can't Stay Out Of It, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordlessWonders/pseuds/WordlessWonders
Summary: Sherlock was the main attraction, he needed breaking down. Jim always saw himself as the enzyme- breaking down that complicated man until he was simple and made sense. But, Sherlock always did make sense, and now he knew that. Now, that he is trapped spiralling into the mind of a man he never thought would get to him. Sherlock lay forgotten on the floor of 221B and John remembers what it's like to do something you really, really shouldn't.





	1. Prologue- Look where we are.

“John?”

No reply.

“Baby?”

Nothing.

Jim couldn’t hold back any longer. He strode across the room, pulling John’s face in line with his own- watching his eyes remain fixed on one spot in the distance; all light drained from his unresponsive body.  
Jim let out a long shuddering breath, resting his forehead on John’s. His eyes closed and his brow furrowed, tears threatening to escape.

“Oh, Johnny, what have they done to you?”

Jim opened his eyes, wanting to see his face just one last time. Instead, he was met with a cold, seemingly indifferent stare- one Jim had taught him, one he perfected within seconds.

“Nothing, Jim. They have done nothing to me. This is all your fault.” 

John’s voice was hoarse, cracked; left dry from the lack of liquid in his diet. Jim was certain they weren’t feeding him more than one meal a week. His face fell gaunt, his straight jacket- fastened up as tightly as possible- sat loose on his shoulders, with hollow eyes and a stinging redness around them. Whether this showed he had been crying or not sleeping, Jim didn’t care. It meant his John wasn’t alright and he- he had to do something about it. He had to make him feel better.

“I’ll talk to the nurses; get you better food, better accommodation. I’ll see if they can do something about the other inmates-“  
“You would find that important.”

Jim stood up, walked a few paces back, then placed his hand over his mouth; facing away from John. He thought to himself for a few moments, trying to figure out what, if anything, John needed to hear. He bowed his head for a second, concentrating hard. Glancing back at John, he couldn’t find an answer anywhere. He was completely overwhelmed by his own questions, needing to ask what he so desperately needed to know. 

_Why did this happen?_

_How did this happen?_

_What good will it do?_

_What have I done to cause this?_

_Are you happier here than with me?_

Jim walked back to John, crouching down in front of him, searching his face for any sight of an answer. He got none.

“What happened to us, Johnny, it was all so beautiful and then...” he trailed off as a single tear fell from his face.  
John watched it fall with absolute blankness, before staring at where it disturbed the thick layer of dust he sat in.  
It was unusual, some small voice bravely spoke from the back of John’s exiled mind, that only now, after he had lost everything and Jim had gained more than considered humanly possible; that Jim finally breaks his defences for him and lets his emotions out. Now that he had all of his own, and, John’s emotions to protect.

“Fine.”

Jim stood up, straightening off his suit jacket before gently positioning John’s face so he could see it properly, and so that he could pretend that John is looking at him, and not some spot behind him.

“Tell me what’s important.”

John finally let his gaze fall on Jim’s.

It was disgraceful. Tears streamed down his face, a wreck stood in front of him. Jim was strong, domineering and wild. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t the Jim Moriarty he’d grown to love- grown to adore.

His gaze fell, guilt creeping in. It shouldn’t have to be this way. He’d always known that Jim was lying, that it wasn’t true- he just never realised Jim was lying to himself.

“Johnny?”

John snapped back to reality staring back Jim, transfixed.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry Jim, but I just don’t think there’s anything important left here. You tried- I know that, but you wanted to break me and so here I am. The war couldn’t break me, my father couldn’t break me- hell, even **Sherlock Holmes** couldn’t break me! But you? You can, and you don’t even want to.”

Jim just stared at him, processing the information John was giving- and everything he had failed to say. They stayed like that for several minutes, watching, gauging each other’s reactions.

Jim was the first to move. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he slipped his hand into the front left pocket of his suit. As his hand came out, John took a sharp intake of breath.

“You kept them?”

Jim smiled sadly and spoke to the small, battered envelope, as if waiting for it to knowingly smile back.

“Always.”


	2. Sherlock

Need was paramount, at least, where Sherlock was involved. John was more of a romantic than a realist, but he was willing to try. So- no flowers; no wine; no dining; no nervousness and especially no undermining. Deep breath, walk in and begin.

"John."

Assume he knows. Always assume he knows.

"Well?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, eyes darting everywhere- curiosity building.

"Well? John… I-"

Then his thoughts fell into place. Eyes widening, regarding his friend- only friend- wondering whether now was the time to be truthful or not. John, it seemed, had been learning- observing- how to treat Sherlock. He had definitely completed his metaphorical homework. In short, Sherlock liked him. He knew he was connoting a very stereotypical teenage boy when he thought this, but he knew that was the only way to put it. He could not say that he loved John, or that he did not. He was too well situated on the fence to decide one way or another. But, he knew that more than anything he was not an easy person to live with, let alone love. If he did this, he would change John forever- and loose him for twice as long.

"John."

He blinked back to reality. The curtains had closed; the main lights were off, but a lamp by the desk had been switched on. There wasn't any music playing, but Sherlock felt there should be.

"You're back, then."

A warm cup of tea was placed in his hand, John's fingers lingering over Sherlock's just a little.

"How long was I gone?"

John smiled kindly at Sherlock, he had been practicing this- being able to talk to Sherlock without talking. His mind palace had taken him away for several hours, leaving several cold cups of tea and worry in the kitchen from waiting for him to open his eyes again.

"I see."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, thinking of where to start. He'd spent a while clearing his thoughts, but even so he seemed to be at a complete loss for words.

"John- I…"

John braced himself- time for a big decision. If he made the wrong one, everything would be ruined. Sherlock was about to build up his defences higher, put on his 'sociopath head' and make it twice as hard for Sherlock to open up; however if he stops Sherlock and is wrong- he isn't about to block him out, he may scare him away- break everything. John set his gaze on Sherlock- determined. He wasn't going to loose, not this time. 

He came down gently onto the arm of Sherlock's chair, sweeping a lock of his hair out of his face. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Sherlock's- gentle, but firm- determined.

It took Sherlock all of about three seconds to kiss John back. A seemingly small amount of time, but one John was certain must be a hesitation from someone like Sherlock. Pulling away, he let a hopeful gaze fall on Sherlock's bright, blue eyes- like a deer caught in the headlights. 

John saw Sherlock open his mouth- to talk, he thought- then his eyes closed, pressure on his lips increased, insistent hands began to grip at his shirt and neck. He gave in. Letting his lips slip open, he allowed Sherlock's tongue to roam- analysing every inch of his mouth with an insistent energy. And yet, Sherlock did not move for anything more.

John thought, maybe he didn't want anything else, that he should take what he is given and work slowly. But as a breathy plea of "please" is placed against his ear he dives in: hands roaming and undoing buttons. It took maybe a second for Sherlock to crash into his bed, lips never leaving John's. He pulled back for a minute, allowing John to watch his form contract and move in the pale light- chest rising and falling, toned muscles tightening with every twist of desire. He sat up, legs tight against Sherlock's sides. He watched, as Sherlock's skin prickled with sweat; his eyes fell closed; his mouth fell open; he moaned low in his throat; and bead after bead of precum dripped down his swollen, aching cock. 

John's mouth latched onto Sherlock's neck, releasing a low throaty cry from the detective. He kissed, licked and sucked a mark onto his neck- one low enough and far enough back to be hidden by Sherlock's highest collared shirt- the deep purple one, coincidently John's favourite. John began to move his hips, circling over Sherlock's erection, eliciting moan after moan.

His pace increased, pressure building. He could feel the heat pooling in his cock, he couldn't stop, couldn't slow down. He kept moving, listening to every cry from Sherlock as he too became erratic. Sherlock was thrusting up, meeting the roll of John's hips with as much speed and vigour. After a few moments, neither could take it any longer. John collapsed on top of Sherlock, their come mixing between them as they panted and held on to each other.

John was the first to move. He took Sherlock by the hand and led him to the bathroom. Turning on the water he let it cascade between the two of them, gazing wantonly into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared back, his breathing increasing in speed as he felt John's hands roam over his body again, gentler this time- less urgency.

Sherlock had never expected John to be able to affect him this way, he felt himself shudder and gasp at the feeling of John's hands on his porcelain skin. He longed for more, wanting to feel him more, feel his touch on every inch of his skin constantly and forever. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulling him in closer, dropping his head to rest on the smaller man's shoulder.

They spent the next twenty minutes thoroughly cleaning each other's bodies, before drying off. John took Sherlock's hand into his, squeezing it gently before leading him to his bed. They climbed in together, Sherlock curling into John, John's arms around his shoulders.


End file.
